


What Molly Saw

by SuiteJayne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Oral Sex, POV Molly Hooper, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25021393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuiteJayne/pseuds/SuiteJayne
Summary: Molly Hooper stops back at the lab late one night and sees Sherlock and John in flagrante. Somehow, she can't tear herself away.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 139





	What Molly Saw

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to reading fanfic and this is my first attempt at writing some! Hope you enjoy!

Another perfectly nice, utterly forgettable Friday evening with Bob, the banker Molly had been seeing for a month or two. Classy restaurant, stroll by the river, charming conversation. Molly begged off the invitation back to Bob’s flat, lying about an early morning workout class. She parted from him with a chaste kiss and a sense of relief, and took the Tube back to Barts. She had forgotten her lunch things and they’d grow mold if she left them until Monday. Besides, she was in no hurry to get back to her flat. It would be quiet, peaceful, and empty except for her cat. She pictured the cool white sheets on her bed, an Arctic wasteland.

It was late and the building was locked up and deserted. Molly felt an itch of frustration as she swiped her key card and entered. She wanted to seize her own lapels and shake herself. Bob was a catch by anyone’s standards. He was kind, dependable, handsome (in a wholesome sort of way) and he hung on her every word. A girl didn’t get that many chances to regale an audience with tales of corpses, toxins and pathogens. Then for that audience to turn around and whisper sweet nothings, plying her with floral arrangements and tasteful gifts? This was about as good as it got. She should be hearing wedding bells. So why wasn’t Molly hooked? It could not, she thought bitterly, have anything to do with a devastatingly sexy, high-functioning sociopath of her acquaintance, now could it?

She arrived at the lift and jabbed the button with irritation. 

Bob the banker. 

Molly pulled her long hair into a messy bun and engaged in a little mental exercise as she rode the lift, totting up his good points.

Pros:  
Polite  
Considerate  
Caring  
Gainfully employed in a profession most people had heard of  
Unambiguously heterosexual  
Not Sherlock Holmes

Cons:  
Not Sherlock Holmes 

Molly sighed. She was an idiot. 

The lift arrived at her floor and she stepped out into the darkened corridor. 

And speak of the Devil--Sherlock was still in the lab. His head and torso were framed in a three-quarter profile in the window that looked into the room, lit up like a portrait in a museum. Well, he’d always kept odd hours. No doubt he was running tests on flakes of nail polish from that severed toe Greg Lestrade had gotten in the post. Molly steeled herself for the awkwardness that would ensue when she walked into the room; probably, she mused, either a chilly silence or a barrage of unhelpful, yet accurate, observations about her personal life, gleaned perhaps from a stray hair on her coat or a fleck of red wine staining her cuff.

Pausing again as she approached the door, Molly allowed herself a split second more to contemplate Sherlock’s face. He was leaning back against the work table with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. Probably exploring his Mind Palace. Pretentious arsehole. 

But even as her rational mind attempted to talk her out of it, the sight of him acted like a drug on Molly. The smooth planes of his face looked like they had been carved from marble, like he was some Renaissance angel. Between his otherworldly beauty and his intellect--for some inconvenient reason, clever was sexier than kind where Molly was concerned--Sherlock tended to crowd thoughts of others out of her head. Despite his manipulativeness, his casual cruelty, and his obvious unsuitability for any kind of relationship, the torch she carried for him stubbornly refused to be doused.

Then the marble-like smoothless of Sherlock’s brow wrinkled, his nostrils flared, and he bit his lower lip. Funny. This was not an expression she was used to seeing on his face. He looked oddly flushed, besides. And was that a bead of sweat running down his temple? Suddenly, his eyes opened and he looked down towards his feet with an expression of intense concentration. His lips moved, and although no sound penetrated outside the lab, Molly could read what he’d said.

“Don’t stop.”

Curiouser and curiouser. 

Molly crept closer to the window. She sucked in her breath sharply as John Watson came into view, kneeling at Sherlock’s feet. She could not see his face from this angle, but who else could it be? Besides, she’d know his solid form and close-cropped sandy hair anywhere. Sherlock’s trousers were around his ankles; John grasped his erect cock in his left hand and had passed his right hand behind Sherlock to squeeze his arse. Molly sank back into the shadows, fully intending to retreat to the lift but somehow instead moving silently along the hallway until the angle was right for her to see John’s face. He was smiling, grinning really, and waiting.

Molly glanced at Sherlock. His face was alive with desire and frustration, a sensation she knew well. He spoke, and she read his pale, perfect lips.

“Please.”

John grinned even more broadly and licked the length of Sherlock’s shaft, taking the head in his mouth and running his tongue around it several times before swallowing nearly the whole length. She watched as he slowly released Sherlock’s cock from his mouth. Molly returned her gaze to Sherlock’s face; his eyes were squeezed shut again, his brow knit, in an expression almost of anguish. He was trembling. Molly was wet.

John continued to take Sherlock’s cock deep into his throat and slowly, agonizingly, release it until he lapped at just the tip, pumping the shaft with his hand. Molly imagined bending that taut, insistent flesh to her will also, reducing Sherlock to a jelly as John was doing now.

It wouldn’t be long now; Sherlock’s chest heaved with deep breaths and his hands moved from grasping the metal edges of the table to grip John’s hair. His lips moved again.

“I’m coming.” 

John released his grip on Sherlock’s prick and grabbed his hips with both hands, holding them as still as he could as Sherlock bucked involuntarily with his orgasm, fucking John’s mouth with almost the whole length of his cock for several strokes. When it was over, Sherlock’s hands flew to cover his face entirely as he recovered with ragged, deep breaths. Then dropping his hands, he looked at John who still knelt expectantly in front of him. He bent to grab John under his armpits and hauled him to his feet, smothering his lips with his own, devouring him. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and kissed him back. The knowledge that Sherlock was tasting himself, tasting his cum in John’s mouth, sent the blood rushing to Molly’s face. She felt dizzy. She needed to leave. Why hadn’t she done so already? Based on the angle of the light falling from the window onto the hallway floor, she was reasonably sure that she couldn’t be seen from inside. But the two could leave the lab at any moment and discover her there. 

Molly gulped, closed her eyes for half a second, ready to turn on her heel, but when she opened them, Sherlock had turned to face the table and John was embracing him from behind, caressing his chest and stomach under his white button-down and saying something into his ear. Sherlock was nodding. John cast about himself and stepped away for a moment. Strangely, he appeared to descend a stair. Molly nearly had to stifle a laugh when she realized he’d been kneeling on an overturned packing crate to give Sherlock head. But the laugh died in her throat as she watched Sherlock, half-naked and vulnerable, trusting, waiting for his lover. His slender thighs and backside were visible under the tail of his shirt. Still catching his breath, he gripped the table to steady himself. Molly was...moved. 

John had disappeared from view, but he returned with one of the lab’s bottles of mineral oil. Molly shuddered with anticipation and realized with a rush of self-consciousness that her own juices had soaked her knickers and were running down her leg. She should go, of course she should, but somehow, she was rooted to the spot. 

John stepped on the packing crate again and undid his belt and trousers. He let them fall as his erection sprang free and wrapped his arms around Sherlock once again, sliding his hands under the taller man’s shirt to tweak his nipples and then undoing several buttons and yanking Sherlock’s shirt down to kiss, lick and bite Sherlock’s neck where it met his shoulders. Then Sherlock put his hands on the table and bent forward as John slicked his cock with mineral oil and rubbed its tip up and down the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. John said something in Sherlock’s ear, and the taller man nodded again, allowing his lover to guide the head of his cock to his arsehole and push it inside.

Sherlock and Molly sucked in a sharp, simultaneous breath, each tensing and then relaxing as John slowly entered Sherlock, pausing every centimeter to make sure he could accept his girth. And then John was inside him, slowly thrusting, and Sherlock leaned his shaking forearms on the table and opened his mouth in a moan that Molly fancied she could just hear through the thick glass of the window.

John fucked Sherlock sweetly and slowly, and Molly became suddenly aware of her swollen clit and the engorged lips of her cunt, slick and wet. She itched to touch herself but on a practical level, she couldn’t figure out the logistics of skirt and tights and knickers and besides, wouldn’t that be crossing another line? A line she hadn’t yet crossed by watching?

John’s movements became quicker; he leaned forward into Sherlock. Then he took a fistful of Sherlock’s curls in his left hand and with the other grabbed Sherlock’s right forearm, twisting his arm behind him. Molly could see that John wasn’t hurting him but knew, as Sherlock did, that with an easy motion, he could. With this new leverage, John pulled Sherlock fully upright, his cock still buried in his arse. Molly imagined how this position would cause Sherlock’s tight passage to clench around John’s cock, and she watched as John thrust into Sherlock as deep as he could. 

Then John let go Sherlock’s arm but kept hold of his hair, pushing him back down unceremoniously until his cheek was smashed against the cool metal of the table. John used his knee to knock Sherlock’s legs as far apart as they’d go, shackled as they were by his trousers around his ankles, and spread him open so that he could penetrate him even more deeply. Sherlock’s face was turned towards Molly and she could see his ecstatic expression, encompassing both pleasure and an admixture of pain, suffused with need. 

His lips moved. It looked like: “John, I need you. Fuck me!” 

John, for his part, obliged. He withdrew his cock nearly all the way, only to push it back in again with vigor. Molly forced her fingers down the front of her knickers, pushing her erect clit hard. Her orgasm coursed through her in waves as she watched Sherlock so completely at the mercy of his lover.

John was close, too; he rocked into Sherlock several times and came with a moan that Molly could hear quite clearly. Then he seemed to melt onto the other man’s back, the two heaving deep breaths, John’s shirt wet with sweat and sticking to his sides. After a minute, John withdrew and Molly thought she could just see his semen dribbling down Sherlock’s thigh. John grabbed his lover’s hips, turning him, and the two men embraced, kissing, their faces comfortably on the same level thanks to the packing crate. John smoothed the curls back from Sherlock’s face and caressed his cheekbones with his fingers. Sherlock’s hands moved restlessly from John’s waist to his arse, up his back, and then to his waist again. Finally John took Sherlock’s face in his hands and stared into his eyes almost aggressively. His lips moved. It was easy to read them.

“I love you.” 

Sherlock grinned. 

“I know.”

John’s face broke into a delighted smile and he slapped Sherlock’s cheek--playfully, but firmly; it must have stung a little. Sherlock’s own smile broadened and brightened; he laughed. Finally regaining control over herself, Molly sank back into the gloom of the hallway and fled down the stairs.

She took a cab home; she couldn’t face the bright lights of the tube or the knowledge that the slick of wetness running down her thigh might be visible to other passengers. Furthermore, she had to get home quickly to her vibrator and process this evening’s revelations properly. 

So. It was true, what people said about Sherlock and John. Molly considered her feelings. Was she devastated? No. She hadn’t held out any real hope for her attraction to Sherlock to be returned. And after what she’d seen, watching him in thrall to his lover, losing his frigid self-mastery, shaking with pleasure, she felt a kind of strange new intimacy with him. She even felt in possession of the tiniest seed of power. After all, now she knew something that Sherlock didn’t know she knew. She wasn’t sure that had ever happened before. Molly Hooper paid the cabbie and took the stairs two at a time. She unlocked her flat, shed her coat, tossed her keys on the counter, kicked off her shoes, stretched out on her sofa, and laughed. 

In a cab on the way to Baker Street, John absentmindedly trailed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock moved towards him across the seat, releasing his seatbelt so that he could slump against John and lean his dark head on his shoulder. 

“Well, that was a new one for us. I hope Molly got home alright. She left in a hurry or I’d have offered to share a cab,” John said wryly. “What’s she up to now, do you think?”

“Oh, I have one or two ideas.”

“Tell me again how you knew she’d be back?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“She was wearing her typical date night shoes today but hadn’t bothered to shave her legs. So she’s seeing someone she’s ambivalent about and wasn’t planning for anything physical to happen tonight,” he said rapidly. “Her online search history today (yes, John, I looked at her phone) included the menu of a restaurant not far from here. Barts is on the way back to her flat from the restaurant. Molly is fastidious. Naturally she’d stop for the dirty Tupperware she left in the kitchenette.”

“Hm. That does make sense.”

“Of course it does. Do you want to know how I know she’s seeing a bank employee whose preference for dogs over cats is likely to be Molly’s excuse for breaking it off with him?”

“Some other time, maybe,” John laughed. “Well. I hope she enjoyed the show.” 

“I don’t doubt it.”

Silence. Sherlock looked out the front windshield; raindrops smeared the city lights down the glass. He spoke again.

“And you?”

“Hm?”

“Did you? Enjoy it.”

John looked incredulously at Sherlock. He touched the other man’s cheek, turning Sherlock’s face to his.

“How can you ask that? You know,” he teased softly, “for a notorious egomaniac you can be oddly unsure of yourself.”

Accepting this for now, Sherlock lay across the seat with his head in John’s lap. The car raised a curtain of rainwater as it splashed through a puddle and rounded a corner into the night.


End file.
